Hidden Voices (23 page)

“It was a moving piece. She played it well.”

“And she has many other talents that her artistry upon the viola would not suggest. She is, in fact, the only one beside the
commun
girls allowed full access to the nursery. She knows just how to soothe and care for babes of any age.”

Though not the ogling, smoking kind!
I think.

His eyes go to my bosom once again, and I begin to understand his fascination there. He wants not only mate but mother, and I have been described to him as nurturing.

“Does she know how to entertain?” he asks of Prioress, still not addressing me.

“Oh, yes. Our girls are schooled in all the social forms. She can instruct a cook, prepare and pour a pot of tea or coffee, arrange a comely table.”

“Sir,” I interrupt, and he is most disconcerted. He looks from Prioress to me and back, but she does not seem disturbed and does not indicate a will to intervene.

“I have some questions of my own,” I say.

To my left, Signora Mandano gives me a nudge between the ribs and clears her throat in a way that sounds as if a table leg has scraped the floor, but I ignore her.

“How many children do you have? When did you lose your wife?”

His face grows violet around the eyes, rose red down to his chin. He turns to Prioress. “That information is quite private. I gave it to Signora in the strictest confidence.”

But Prioress surprises even me.

“Anetta will need to know the whole of it at some time. Where our girls’ futures are concerned, we don’t believe in keeping anything a secret.”

“I am a recent widower, it’s true,” he says at last, now looking at his plate and delving between his teeth with a goose-feathered pick. “My former wife was decorous to a fault and left all conversation up to me.” With this last pronouncement he does look up and meet my gaze, expecting, I suppose, that I will look away. Instead, I lock my eyes upon him.

“I had not thought this young woman would be so bold,” he says, to Prioress again. “Her playing was controlled and accomplished to be sure, but she herself seems quite unbridled.”

As in a very large
wild horse
perhaps?

“Yes,” she replies, “our Anetta can be outspoken”— another nudge from Signora —“but ladylike, you can be sure, in all other ways.”

“Hmmpf,” he utters, unconvinced. He has not addressed both my questions, however, and I should like to know the answers. As would Rosalba, I am certain.

“The number of your children, sir?” I ask. And while I have his ear, “How many of them boys, how many girls? And, oh, yes, their ages from the youngest to the eldest.”

He claps one hand upon his heart, his cheeks balloon, and his unmatched eyes begin to pop a bit. I wonder if there’s something stuck within his throat. But there is not a coughing fit to follow, and when Prioress expresses her concern, he waves his handkerchief before his face, blows his nose, and acts as if such an extreme reaction must be the normal one to questions asked he doesn’t wish to hear.

“More tea?” asks Signora Mandano when his silence is unbroken, her voice grown small and tight. She fills his cup and he consumes another honey cake before rising from his chair and bidding Prioress and everyone but me good day. As he walks away, I notice that his hips are wider than his shoulders, another reason to rejoice that he is leaving.

Prioress rises, too, to see him to the door, casting a sour look at me upon her way. Signora Mandano waits to deliver her short tirade until they both are out of earshot.

“Ungrateful girl! What were you thinking? We finally manage to find a mouse to take the cheese and you snatch it back. By Our Lord’s own wounds, I can’t imagine what got into you today.”

I do appreciate their efforts and know they want only good things for my future, but this man was impossible. Without the strength to tell them so myself, my prayers, if that is what they be, were obviously listened to.

And so I answer her.

“Signora. It must have been Rosalba.”

W
E HAVE BEEN PERFORMING
in the Piazza San Marco and other nearby
campi
for many weeks, and still there has been no instrument procured for me. Every time Pasquale mentions it (for I have given up and am still conflicted about the playing of the oboe here in Venice; it confounds me how I miss it so) Salvatore or Lydia says that with one more mouth to feed, there’s not even enough money in the coffers for our daily needs. I have no way of knowing if this is true. What amount is expended upon me, however, must be minimal, for I have little appetite and small need of anything but sleep. Lydia has only recently begun to sew another dress for me, as mine is getting tight on top and in the waist. It is of rough material (I had hoped for taffeta in summer) and looks very like the loose mantuas of women on the street who are with child. This, of itself, makes me think that Lydia has sensed my secret. I made Pasquale swear to keep the knowledge to himself, and I am certain he would not betray me.

Pasquale’s argument for the instrument is that we’re taking in more ducats since I’ve joined them, not less. For my part, I have lost interest in the simple kinds of tunes they play and am sick at heart when I recall the intricate melodies and challenging inventions I had grown accustomed to playing at the Pietà. Even singing the gay bawdy songs has lost its first appeal. I must pretend enthusiasm, however, for Salvatore is ever vigilant for anything that will give proof of my unworthiness. He chides me constantly for all the naps I take, for sleep is lately at my doorstep at all hours of the day. My only hope is that I quickly learn to push a broom around and doze all at one time.

One late Saturday, we have begun a performance at the Campo San Anzolo, and it is time for me to step forward and sing my songs. I have grown accustomed to having the audience so close, and launch into my limited repertory with the same “lusty” voice I have not been able to change. Though I still blush at the lyrics of a few of these ditties, the audience seems delighted and eagerly joins in at places familiar to them.

It is when I come to the end of the second song and am about to begin a third, that I see him, Father Vivaldi, at the very edges of the crowd. With his eyes upon me, it is all I can do to continue, and when I finish singing the embarrassing words, I do not stay to bow, as I’ve repeatedly been instructed to do, but back away into the shadows. The little band of instruments begins to play again, and I hope that I can hide somehow within its loud sound and the dark shadow of the nave of San Anzolo, cast across the
campo
by the moon.

Imagining, without reason, that I am less likely to be seen while my eyes are downcast, I am soon gazing at the square toes and pinchbeck buckles of Father Vivaldi’s best boots. He extends one hand to lift my chin, causing me to look directly into his kind gray eyes.

“I have been searching for you for weeks,” he says in a rush of words. “My brother, Guido, had told of seeing you about the neighborhood with this little band. At first I could not believe him. I am still shocked and appalled.”

What can I reply? I simply continue to look at him, my eyes feasting on the sight of a face so dear and familiar to me.

“Why did you run away?” he asks. “What made you seek a life like this upon the streets? A
signorina
of your talent and spirit! And one already a
maestra.
I find it very hard to believe.”

The words come slowly from me. I have to push each one into the air. What, after all, can I tell him? That I was a foolish and capricious girl with grand romantic fantasies? That I did not appreciate the kindness and care of the Ospedale? That I have set things in motion that cannot now be changed?

“I am told I can never go back.”

He takes my hands in his. He holds them out between us.

“Cara mia,”
he says at last. “You have been given the correct information. That is, sadly, I’m told, the rule. The rule of the board. Apparently, it has long been so, and they do not listen to composers or violinists or those who repair instruments.”

My words catch upon the sob that rises in my throat. “So I have no choice. These people,” I say, glancing over at them, “have taken me in. They have allowed me to perform in their group.”

“
Allowed!
What is this word,
allowed
? Do they realize how privileged they are to have a talented musician trained at the world-renowned Pietà in their troupe? Do they have any idea at all of who you are?”

“I am just one more orphan. That is what they know. And they know that I sing rather well. Or rather badly, according to Lydia.”

“And where is your instrument? How can you live this long without your instrument?”

When he says this, I realize how very difficult it has been, how playing the oboe had been second nature to me. Without it, these months now, I am functioning without a necessary appendage. Why had I bridled so under the gentle constraints that Father used in helping me to perfect my playing? Why had I not seen the great value of all that was right under my spoiled and fickle nose?

“Here,” says Father, reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat and handing me a small piece of paper on which he has written an address.

“What is this?” I ask.

“The name of a friend in Vienna who may be able to book you as a oboist in other cities, to help you build a career away from the Ospedale. With Signore Gasparini ill so often, and with me having to fill his shoes more and more, I need you badly to teach the young ones. How ironic that it can never be.”

There are no pockets in this strange new mantua, so I stick the note under my capelet in between my breasts.

He tips his hat in a courtly way as if I’m a person of importance. He takes my hand and kisses it with true affection. Another sob almost chokes me, and tears begin to flood my cheeks, even before he turns to go. He waves his hat as his lithe body backs away into the night.

“Take care, Rosalba. Take very good care.”

“Who was that man?” asks Salvatore as soon as Father has left.

When I tell him, he is openmouthed and quickly disparaging.

“You expect me to believe that the composer Vivaldi, a man whose operas are becoming world renowned, that he would seek you out and kiss your hand?”

Even as his
flauto
was being blown by his lovely lips, he had been spying on me.

“Don’t tell me,” says Lydia as she begins to pack her violin, “that you’re given to exaggeration. At the very least, I thought you’d be a truthful girl.”

“He was my teacher,” I say. “At the Ospedale. He was my best teacher.”

“You see,” says Pasquale. “She is well thought of. She needs to have an oboe of her own.”

“Did he tell you that you cannot sing in Venice?” asks Lydia.

“No. He said nothing of my singing.”

“Perhaps he feels, as I do, that it’s too robustious.”

“The patrons like it,” says Pasquale.

“Patrons!”
exclaims Lydia. “Listen to him. You have your own grand delusions. I’d barely call the motley baggage that gawks at us an
audience,
let alone
patrons.
”

Going back to the apartment, Pasquale walks with me, a little behind the others. “There was more money in the basket tonight than on any other,” he says. “There is simply no reason except spite that Salvatore refuses to procure an oboe for you. Tonight I will insist.”

“Don’t do it, Pasquale,” I tell him. “I’m out of practice. I’m tired all the time. I’m used to a good instrument. I don’t want to play some beaten-up old thing.”

“You deserve the finest instrument in the world, it is true. When I make my fortune, I will buy one for you.”

“Just how do you intend to make your fortune?”

“With you to inspire me, I will think of a way.”

He means very well, and he does truly care for me. This has been apparent from the first. But he is sometimes totally impractical — one reason, I suspect, that the purse strings are securely tied to Lydia and only wheedled away by Salvatore.

When I hear him refer to a future that includes me, I want to dissuade him, but his words are never ordered into a direct question to which I can give a direct answer. That is, they have not been until today, when he says, “And you must not worry about the future. The child you carry will have both father and mother. Can I not be entrusted to take care of both of you?”

“Pasquale,” I say, “you are perhaps the only reason I did survive my ordeal, but I do not expect or want you to feel indebted or responsible for me.”

“Rosalba. How can you fail to understand? I do not feel indebted to you in any way. I am, however, in love with you, and I would wish to be in your love as well. May I not hope for that?”

Dear and good Pasquale. My savior. My defender. How is it that I do not love you? And what can I say that will not cause you much hurt?

“Good friend,” I begin, and can see from his face that he does not appreciate my choice of salutation, “you have been nothing but kindness itself to me since that first awful night. No one could have been more compassionate or caring. You have helped me understand and bear the information of my present predicament. I should love you for all of this, and in a way, I do. But it is not in the way that you would like or that you perhaps deserve.”